


Gambit

by thedevilchicken



Category: Copycat (1995)
Genre: Chess, Developing Relationship, F/F, Future Fic, Long-Distance Relationship, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 17:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12462621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: It started with chess.





	Gambit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SadieFlood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadieFlood/gifts).



It started with chess. 

MJ remembers learning to play when she was younger - when she was really young, back when her grandpa was still alive - and she can't say she was a huge fan of it. The rules seemed over-complicated and she was happier reading a book on the porch swing or just jumping rope in the yard, but her grandpa always brought her back to the board, rain or shine, the hottest day of summer just like the coldest day of winter, to play a game with him. She always lost. It didn't feel much like a game to her when it was never fun. 

She took it up again in college when her roommate broke her leg and, pretty understandably, didn't feel too much like hobbling around campus on her pair of rickety old crutches if she didn't absolutely, positively have to. They grabbed the board from out of the rec room since no one else ever seemed to use it and they learned again together, from books MJ borrowed from the library and their anthropology professor who liked to say chess told you everything you needed to know about human nature, though MJ was never totally sure if he meant that or not. They weren't great at it, either of them, but it passed the time. They didn't really care who won or lost, so MJ figured they were probably missing the point, but at least it was fun. 

Over the years, she played a game or two here or there: Thanksgiving in the kitchen with her dad, in the office after hours with Nicoletti, on a tiny board with magnetic pieces in the front seat of the squad car with one partner or another. She never really _liked_ it, but she did play sometimes. She preferred reading a book or taking a run, maybe batting for the department softball team or an afternoon at the shooting range if she had to pick a sport. Her grandpa would've said shooting wasn't a sport, no way, no how, but she'd've begged to differ. She's won trophies. She's a _really_ good shot. 

The first game she played after Reuben died was with Helen Hudson. She didn't even really mean to do it, and it came on pretty slowly - she went over there after they'd talked on the phone three times in not even quite as many days, a new case MJ had picked up, maybe a serial but they never liked to ring that bell too early since it wasn't like they could un-ring it. MJ wasn't really surprised that Helen's agoraphobia hadn't improved since Foley's death and Daryll Lee's eventual execution, though she'd almost hoped it would somehow. That way the good doctor could've visited the station and MJ wouldn't've needed to go back there again. It reminded her of things she'd've preferred to've left unremembered. 

Helen was playing chess on one of the computers at her desk. MJ's never really been any more of a fan of computers than she was of chess; she likes books, hard copies, not words on screens and blinking cursors and cables that always seem to wind up in a tangle and tech support on the other end of the line acting like you're stupid because it turns out _log off_ and _turn off_ aren't the same thing after all. But from what she could see, Helen was winning. From what she saw on her visits over the next few days, over Helen's shoulder while they talked work, she _always_ won. That seemed to fit with everything she knew about her. It really wasn't a surprise.

Maybe that was what got her thinking. Maybe that was why she took the beat-up old board she'd borrowed from the college rec room all those years ago out of her closet and set it up on the kitchen table. She played through both sides of what she'd seen of Helen's games, moving white then black, turning the board between sips of coffee in the morning or something stronger at night, when she got in after work. She fished the magnetic set out of the back of her drawer, behind the extra staples and the spare keys to the car she'd sold two years before, and shifted pieces around on her desk at the office. It took her mind off the case. It helped her think more clearly. She guessed she had Helen Hudson's online chess fetish to thank for that. In a way, it almost felt like they were playing those games together. 

Helen helped solve the case, or at least her expertise did if not her general demeanor. MJ's captain signed off on them showing her the files so they could quit talking in the abstract and get a little more particular, and they sat on the couch with the photos and reports strewn out all over the coffee table, Helen peering at them with her glasses on that made her eyes look huge and MJ told herself that was what she was staring at. Helen asked smart questions and MJ gave her all the answers that she could. MJ asked smart questions of her own and Helen looked at her like she'd just asked her if the sky was blue. It felt a lot like it had before, just with an aching lack of Reuben easing things along the way he had. 

And, after Helen's insight had given them the killer's profile so precisely it was almost glaring when they looked more closely at their suspect pool, and after MJ's legwork had finally brought the guy in with evidence, she went over there again though she guessed really there was nothing left to discuss about the case. She took a bottle of wine along with her and muttered something about celebrations as she handed it over, and Helen whisked it away into the kitchen and came back with something in two large glasses that was probably another wine completely. MJ honestly can't say she would've blamed her. She'd tasted the stuff she'd brought over once or twice before and frankly, it wasn't great; bringing it had been a spur of the moment thing or she wouldn't've brought the bottle she'd won last Christmas in the department raffle. 

At some point that night, the computer beeped - Helen excused herself and she wandered over there, and MJ followed her a minute or so later. She'd gotten a reply in one of her chess games, and she'd made another move after that in response; MJ leaned on the back of Helen's chair, wine glass in hand, and Helen turned just a little to look up at her. 

"Do you play?" Helen asked, far too close to her but MJ guessed that was her own damn stupid fault. 

"Not well," MJ replied. Stubbornly, she didn't move away a single inch, though it made her cheeks feel warm.

"Would you like to play a game?" Helen asked, suddenly all wide-eyed and innocent the precise way MJ knew she wasn't. "I have a board. We don't have to use the computer."

"Maybe some other time," MJ replied. She conceded defeat. She moved away.

She made an excuse not long after that about having work the next day, like they hadn't burnt the midnight oil together more than once. Apparently Helen didn't feel like pointing that fact out because she let her go without an argument, but she was back there three nights later. They didn't play; Helen played instead, and MJ watched her, trying to feign interest in the procedures of computerized chess. She's not too proud to admit she watched Helen more than she watched the game. She's not too proud to admit she suspected she was being played with just as much as those virtual pieces were.

It had been that way since the start, MJ thought, since she'd gotten back in touch after the trial and everything else that had followed. She hadn't wanted to but Helen Hudson was the closest thing they had to a genuine expert in the area and even if it hadn't been MJ's case, she was pretty sure the captain would've made her go anyway; he'd come up with some kind of bullshit about it being cathartic, not that MJ had thought it would be, considering everything that had happened and the slow road to recovery she'd been on since. She'd tried to move on but it had been rough, losing her partner, going toe to toe with the copycat killer, knowing Helen was the only one who really understood that, or who knew what had happened the way she did. And then there she'd been again, hearing that voice again, that condescending tone, those pedantic words, and somehow nothing had changed. Helen Hudson was still exactly the same. 

But she _had_ changed, or at least something had if it wasn't just her. As they'd talked, there'd been moments, odd moments, moments when MJ hadn't felt totally comfortable, moments when she'd looked at Helen or noticed that Helen was looking at her and it made her frown and wonder if she'd gotten sauce on her blouse or something not a million miles removed from that. She hadn't. It was nothing she'd done, exactly, and she knew, those moments, it was the same thing she'd seen with Helen and Reuben except not the same, flirting except not, like she was testing things out, like she was testing _her_ out. It was strange, and maybe the strangest thing was at some point MJ knew she wanted to believe that Helen meant it and it wasn't all part of some bizarre psychological game. Then again, who knew with shrinks. She certainly didn't. Even these days, Helen can be hard to read.

A few nights, she turned up after work and Helen let her in and they sat there and Helen played or they talked or they did both, and there were moments when Helen's arm brushed hers and the hairs all stood on end or Helen walked across the room and the way she moved or the contours of her waist or her hips the way the light shone through her dress made MJ wince at herself and look away. It wasn't the first time she'd felt attracted to a woman - her college roommate's broken leg wasn't the only reason they'd hung around their dorm room freshman year, after all - but it'd been a while. She wasn't even sure if she liked Helen Hudson or if she had a strange kind of respectful aversion. She wasn't sure if Helen liked her in return or if she tolerated her for reasons yet unknown. She had no idea if she was being played like just another fucking game of chess. 

A few months later, a few professional consultations later, a few less-than-professional late nights later, MJ finally decided she needed a change: she put in an application to the FBI. She was a little older than the average, maybe, but her captain put in a good word with friends of his and her record said all the right things in all the right places; she trained at Quantico and spent a solid year chipping away at unsolved bank robberies before she was transferred into serial crime. She'd maybe made the jump from local to federal thinking homicides were behind her and she'd wind up working human trafficking or arms trades or jewel heists or something else, anything else, but there she was again, investigating deaths just like she had before. But the Bureau at least had their own experts. They didn't need Helen Hudson. MJ went back home to her apartment, almost disappointed that they hadn't talked. She almost picked up the telephone anyhow. She's not sure why she didn't.

Three weeks later, another death later, when their experts had all tried and come up empty, MJ _did_ call Helen. She thought through the time difference and dialled the number she still somehow knew by heart.

"Will you help?" she asked. 

"If you do something for me," Helen replied. 

"What do you want?"

"A game of chess." 

MJ figured she could do that, considering the urgency of the situation, and so the first real game she'd played in years was over the phone. She lost, but they took the killer in just ten days later. Helen had done it again.

Four months later, they played again. Three months after that, they played again. After that, they played in answerphone messages or moves scrawled on paper and faxed cross-country, MJ calling from a motel in Des Moines or a gas station in Seattle, and Helen always home. MJ lived out of a suitcase most of the time, buying socks on the road and paying through the nose for next-day dry cleaning, and once or twice they played a game entirely by post, moves on postcards from MJ's latest stop, the response mailed to the office back east and read out over the phone by bemused member of their office staff. MJ's pretty sure it was technically a waste of government resources. She's not entirely sure she feels guilty about it. 

The chess board arrived in the mail three days before her fortieth birthday. It looked expensive, and old, and she really didn't have to ask who'd sent it, which she guessed was just as well because whenever she and Helen talked after that, neither of them mentioned it at all. MJ didn't ask, and Helen didn't tell.

A new piece arrived in the mail every week after that, alternating, white then black. Every time one arrived, she found herself adding it to the board that she'd set out on her coffee table like she'd known they'd come. Each one just sat there in its starting place, like it was waiting. 

The final piece arrived more than half a year later and MJ set it into place. She waited, though frankly she had no idea what for. She'd never had a particularly clear idea of anything where Helen was concerned. 

A month passed, waiting, and another job came and went after that, three weeks in Savannah, not too far from the place where she'd grown up. She spent her nights remembering long weekend afternoons learning to how the pieces moved on the board on her grandpa's front porch. For the first time in years, she saw it all clearly: he'd always played as white and so he'd always moved first, and so he'd always had the advantage over her. Helen always took white, but not for the advantage; she took white so MJ wouldn't have to be the one to start the game. 

Three weeks later, MJ knocked on Helen's door. Helen opened it, maybe trying hard to keep the surprise off of her face; if that was the case, she utterly failed. MJ's still pleased sometimes that she's not a completely open book. Sometimes, though, she's happy for Helen to see right through her. 

MJ kissed her at the door, once it was closed behind her, and Helen let her do it. Helen more than let her; Helen wound her fingers into MJ's hair and kissed her back. As much as MJ had been waiting for the next move, she figured maybe Helen had been waiting, too.

And when she pulled back, flushed and breathless, MJ pressed the black queen into Helen's hand. She was holding the white one herself.

"I think I'll go first this time," she said, but they abandoned the game half played. MJ stayed the night. They finished the game in the morning.

Six years on, MJ's still not totally sure if she likes Helen or if it's something else entirely. Six years on, MJ's still not sure if Helen likes her or it's something else again. But when she's thinking clearly, she knows that doesn't really matter. When she's thinking clearly, she knows it's more than likely both.

These days, MJ doesn't care if she loses. She just wants to play the game.


End file.
